


Something Human: Or, The 5 Stages of Sherlock Holmes Being Sick

by Annanymitea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-07-14 12:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annanymitea/pseuds/Annanymitea
Summary: Sherlock proves to be more human than he would like to admit, in a number of ways.





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written a fanfic before and I haven't written anything fictional in almost 20 years; but hey it's fun to try things, right?

It was Wednesday afternoon when Sherlock first suspected that something was wrong. 

He didn’t have any cases on at the moment. To stave off boredom he was hacking a government website to ascertain a theory about a suspect in a cold case he had read about in the newspaper - not in Lestrade’s district, and thus unreachable, but still interesting. His throat started to tickle a bit. He cleared it. Still tickling. Cleared again, but to no avail. A bit not good. He stopped what he was doing, steepling his hands in front of his mouth, thinking. This was almost certainly the start of something he wouldn’t like - probably a cold. Short of zinc there was nothing he could do to get rid of it, and that had been shown to have negative impacts on sense of smell, and he needed all of his sense to properly deduce. Oh, well. It would have to be mind over matter.

John arrived home at 7:00pm, annoyingly chipper after a productive day. With a glance Sherlock noted that had chatted up some mid-30s brunette and had her number tucked in his coat pocket. By that time Sherlock was certain there was a virus lodged in the back of his throat, reproducing steadily. Both the probable virus and the chatting up of the brunette annoyed him - the latter for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. John made tea, which Sherlock drank at a scalding temperature to block out the ticklish feeling. He needed to prepare for ways to occupy his mind while whatever was going on his body played out.

“Any new cases?” he asked John. John clicked through his mobile but shook his head.

“No new emails since earlier in the week. Have you heard anything from Lestrade?” Sherlock ignored him, strode into his bedroom, and shut the door. He hacked back into the website and continued reading up on his suspect, wondering if he should send the results of his research to the police or a journalist. He knew what John would say.

He was up until 1am writing a convincing report which he dispatched to Lestrade. Let him decide what to do with it, Sherlock was just happy to have his answers. He asked for additional cold cases if there were any. By the time he was shucking off his clothes and laying in bed it felt like his entire respiratory tract was on fire. Better to think about something else.  
______________________

The next morning John noticed that Sherlock was acting a bit off, even for Sherlock. John was up, showered, and reading the newspaper when the man wandered out into the sitting room in his dressing gown. 

“Cases?” he asked, voice a bit rough.

“None to speak of,” John said. “Things must be quiet, coming up on the holidays.” 

Sherlock hummed in response as he made himself a cup of tea. He poured hot water out of the kettle and then heated it up an additional 30 seconds, dunking the tea bag in and adding sugar after. John quirked his eyebrow at the extra heating on the tea. It had to be near boiling. After a moment of consideration he decided it was better not to ask.

“Since I don’t have to go in to the surgery today,” John continued, “I thought I’d go out and do a bit of Christmas shopping. D’you want to come?” Lately John had noticed he had been able to get Sherlock to do sociable things sometimes. While it wasn’t always easy, John suspected that it was good for Sherlock and John found himself enjoying spending time with him. It was hard to admit, but he found himself increasingly fond of the man.

This time Sherlock’s hum was negative. “I’ve got to stop by Bart’s and check on some experiments,” he said. His voice was hoarse and John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock thought he was generally unobservant - a thought he had about 99.99% of the human race, so it wasn’t overly insulting. But John was a doctor and by now quite familiar with his flatmate. Sherlock looked paler than usual and his eyes were watery. 

Had Sherlock started using again somehow? John folded down his newspaper. “Everything all right?” he asked. 

Sherlock scoffed. “Fine,” he said. “If you give me 20 minutes to get ready we can share a cab.”

“Sure,” John agreed. Something wasn’t right about Sherlock and it would bear watching.  
_________

Sherlock knew without looking that John was watching him carefully on the cab ride. His throat and chest burned distractingly and he could feel malaise building up in his muscles. John was slightly more observant than the general population - which was not saying much - but on top of it was a doctor. Sherlock strongly suspected that if John realized he was sick he would suggest limiting activities, just as he suggested mundane things like eating and sleeping. Perhaps even insist upon. More and more John had suggestions on personal care and ideas on what Sherlock should be doing differently. More and more Sherlock found himself wanting to incrementally adjust what he was doing to accommodate John’s suggestions and ideas. It was a disturbing development. No, it would be better if he could keep his symptoms a private matter. Thus, Sherlock endeavored not to snivel in front of John and was relieved when the cab reached Bart’s.

He swept into the laboratory, removing his coat and scarf, and found that Molly was already there. “Do you have the sample I’ve been waiting on?” he asked without preamble.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she said, smiling. “The last one’s in the refrigerator on its own marked SH1233.”

Sherlock grabbed that sample and the other 7 he would need. He started to set up the specimens so he could see the long-term impact of mild acid on human skin. It had taken him weeks to collect samples from bodies of about the same age and gender. He set them up systematically, prepared to examine each one under the microscope. It was at this point that his nose started leaking. He sniffled surreptitiously but it quickly became clear that wasn’t going to cut it. He spun on his stool and reached his long arm behind him to find some paper towels, blew his nose loudly, and tried to get back to work. The nasal dripping continued and he slammed his fist down on the counter.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Molly startling across the lab. “Everything ok?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said for the second time that day.

“You sound like you might be coming down with something.”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock insisted, cringing internally when the “n” came out sound like a “d.” He picked up a stack of slides, preparing to transfer the newest sample onto one of them. It was unfortunate that at that moment he sneezed twice, sending slides flying onto the counter and floor. The ones that hit the counter survived but the others shattered into dozens of pieces. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll just get something to sweep that up,” said Molly. “Are you sure you should be experimenting with acid right now?”

“I’m sure I should be doing something useful that’s going to contribute to scientific knowledge and help me solve cases,” he snipped at her. Sherlock sneezed again and honked his nose loudly into a paper towel. He watched Molly sweep and wondered if she knew the man she’d spent the night with was dating other women. Experience told him it was best not to ask at this juncture. Now that the sneezing seemed to be under control he moved on to mixing the acid solution to apply to the samples. He got into a rhythm of checking each sample under the microscope, making notations, and applying the acid, pausing now and then to sneeze and blow his nose. With his mind engaged and humming away it was far easier to ignore the annoying symptoms. When Molly paused what she was doing to look at him and started to open her mouth, he uncorked a glare at her that made her shut it and head back to the other side of the lab. 

When he finished all applications and notes he set an alarm on his mobile to signal when he needed to be back by the lab that afternoon to check the progression of the samples. Then he put together a file of information on bodies that had recently come in as well as borrowing a research journal that he was sure Molly wouldn’t miss until later. That should do well to entertain him at home. In addition to the rapidly stuffing nose, he was loathe to notice that body aches had kicked in full force since he’d been at the lab. If he had the flat to himself it might do to sit down for a bit.  
_________

The Christmas shopping was a total success. Being a weekday, most people were at work and he was able to make his way quickly through his list. It was snowing, which probably also kept the crowds away and added nicely to the holiday atmosphere. He got a nice scarf for Mrs. Hudson and even found a suitable novel that he thought Harry would enjoy. The only person he hadn’t found anything for was Sherlock, who would probably laugh at him for wanting to give a Christmas gift in any case.

John made his way up the stairs weighed down with parcels. It was past lunchtime and his stomach was rumbling. When he let himself into the flat he was shocked to find Sherlock lying on the couch, asleep. He was curled on his side, with some papers he had clearly been reviewing sliding from his hand and onto the floor. What’s more he was snoring at an absurd volume. John had seen him fall asleep while doing work before, mostly during cases when he didn’t sleep for several days, followed by an inevitable collapse. But he had never, not once in their time as flatmates, heard the man snore. John put down his bags and drew closer to Sherlock to cast a doctor’s eye on him. He looked pale still, but for smudges of pink high on his cheekbones. Even in sleep his eyes looked puffy, and John could swear even from a distance that he noticed a swelling on his neck where his lymph nodes were.

There was an almost audible click in John’s brain as his observations formed an actual deduction. He thought Sherlock was coming down with a first-rate case of what the doctors at the clinic were jokingly calling “clu.”

John had coined the ridiculous name. He had noticed an odd pattern 3 weeks ago when he sent 4 suspected cases of influenza in for testing and 3 of them came back negative. John prided himself on being a decent diagnostician and was surprised at his imprecise ability to identify a common ailment. He brought it up with Ryan Boroughs and Lisa Glenn, physicians who were often on clinic duty with him.

“I just don’t get it. It presents like a case of flu. Headache, bad sore throat, congestion. Sometimes coughing. Fever, but not high. And almost all of them came back negative for flu.”

“I think I just saw one with this, actually,” said Lisa. “I sent it to the lab but it seems a milder flu than I would expect. Bet you it comes back negative, based on this. l tell you though this guy’s glands were swollen all to hell. His throat looked terrible but strep came back negative, too.”

“Really?” said Ryan. “You know, now that you mention it I’ve had a lot of patients with that. Several negative strep tests with bad cold symptoms as well. But, yeah, the swollen lymph nodes.”

Ruminating on his other life looking for clues with Sherlock, John blurted out “yeah, it’s like a weird cold-flu hybrid. Clu you might call it.”

“Yeah as in we haven’t got a clue what to do about it,” laughed Lisa. “You can’t give antibiotics or Tamiflu for that.”

John had seen at least a dozen more cases since then. He had put together a mental profile of whatever virus it was: all the normal sneezing, coughing, stuffy nose, sore throat and headache of a cold, as well as swollen lymph nodes, body aches, and mild fever, even in adults. Still, it was nothing to laugh about. Two cases had actually progressed to bronchitis, one to pneumonia. John would bet anything that Sherlock was showing early symptoms of a miserable virus that he wouldn’t be able to do anything about.

John felt a surge of tenderness for his flatmate. Sherlock could be difficult to live with, but he was fascinating in a way John never could have imagined prior to knowing him. Once you got past the experiments in the kitchen, the body parts in the refrigerator, having his research strewn over the entire flat, and you looked deeper at his intelligence, his passion, it was easy to start to like him - well, easy for John anyway. And certainly John had been enjoying solving crimes with him. There was nothing in the world like watching him deduce. John had a feeling there would probably be nothing like trying to help him when he was sick, either.

Well, Sherlock would wake up eventually, and John thought he should be around when he did. In the meantime, he made himself a sandwich, and sat down with a good book. 

_______

An urgent beeping sound jolted Sherlock from a dead sleep. He reached over to grab his mobile without opening his eyes, and ended up in an undignified heap on the floor. He snaked his arm up to get the phone off the coffee table and quickly disabled the alarm. He needed to head to Bart’s to check on the experiments.

He sat up and his eyes met John’s, as his flatmate was examining him from across the room in his usual chair. “I see your shopping was a success,” Sherlock croaked. He hoisted himself to his feet with as much dignity as he could manage, straightening his suit once he was in a standing position. His head was spinning and his nose was starting to run again in a distinctly irritating fashion, both down the back of his throat and out of his nasal cavity. Disgusting. He headed toward the coat rack, calling over his shoulder “I’m off to Bart’s!”

John was standing up now, making his way across the room. “Nope,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘nope’?” I didn’t ask you anything.” Sherlock shrugged into his coat as John stepped in front of the door.

“You’re not going anywhere. You look bad and you sound even worse. You’re sick. Get back on the sofa.”

“I don’t get sick,” Sherlock clipped.

“Everyone gets sick sometimes.”

“Not me. Other people give in to it. I just don’t give in to it. There’s significant evidence that how you think about what is happening to your body determines what is happening to your body.”

“Oh. Great. Point me to the research article showing determined genuises can’t get sick. I must have missed that one. What does it say? ‘Mad scientist reports mad scientists not vulnerable to common germs?’”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Look, I’ve been collecting the appropriate skin samples for weeks. I’m going to go and check on them.”

John pressed his lips together. “That’s a bad idea. It’s freezing cold and snowing out. No matter what you say, you can’t feel well sounding the way you do. Why don’t you sit down for a minute and let me look you over?”

John’s concern, warmly and plainly expressed, weakened both Sherlock’s knees and his resolve. “It’s actually warming up outside,” Sherlock protested. “The snow will be melted by tomorrow. If I let you look me over, can I go?”

“It depends on what I find out. Why don’t you text Molly and ask her to look after the experiment for you?” John glanced at his watch. “I bet she’s still there.”

Sherlock knew what John was going to find out. In the beat of a few moments he took took a full-body inventory: headache; blocked sinuses; post-nasal drip; sore, inflamed tonsils with accompanying swollen lymph nodes; developing chest congestion; full body aches; and a probable temperature of at least 38 degrees. The odds of John letting him leave the flat following an examination were less than 15%. 

“After I go to the lab I’ll let you check me over,” Sherlock bargained. John gave an exasperated sigh. “Come on, John, I’ve got to go! If I don’t get there by 5:00 it will invalidate the experiment.”

“I’m coming with you, then.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “Hurry and get your coat on.”

Instead, John made a beeline for the stairs to his room first. Sherlock didn’t have to ask why and he certainly wasn’t surprised when John returned with his doctor’s bag. The last thing Sherlock wanted was for another person to know how badly his body was betraying him, but if letting John bring the absurd bag with him would get Sherlock to the lab faster, so be it.


	2. Anger

It sometimes felt invigorating just walking into Bart’s, probably because often when John came there his blood was singing from the adrenaline of working a case. He had an odd affection for the place where he had not only done his medical training, but also had met Sherlock. It felt like his life in some ways turned on that moment, transforming from sad, lonely, and boring after being sent home from injured from war to the heart-stopping excitement that was living and working with Sherlock Holmes. Most mornings he woke up knowing that the day could end up totally differently than the way he pictured it upon waking - and as he had in the army, he loved that feeling.

Right now, however, he was irritated instead of excited. Sherlock’s voice was practically gone, he was dabbing his nose with a tissue every 5 seconds, and he had spent the taxi ride huddled into his coat seemingly trying not to shiver. John wanted nothing more than to drag Sherlock back to the flat and tuck him up on the sofa, or better yet, in bed, but he didn’t think the man would allow that sort of fuss. 

It seemed like Molly had already left for the day. John watched Sherlock move swiftly through the lab, removing his coat, getting his samples out of a small refrigerator, and setting up the microscope. He pulled out a notebook and started running through the process of examining each sample and making notations. John loved to watch him work. He stood by quietly, patiently, waiting for Sherlock to surface from his observations. 

After half an hour Sherlock gathered the samples up, reorganized them, and put them back in the refrigerator. In the sallow light of the lab he looked even worse than he had in the flat. “Ready?” asked John

Sherlock looked like he was calculating the odds of being able to escape an examination. “Come sit down on this stool,” John instructed, situating his bag on the counter in front of him. Sherlock complied, huffing softly. John knew he hated showing weakness of any kind. John put on some latex gloves, opened the bag, and removed a thermometer and otoscope. 

“Is that necessary?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes. Put this under your tongue.” John popped the thermometer in his mouth and took Sherlock’s pulse, which was a little fast, while he waited for the thermometer to sounds its alert. When it beeped John removed it and looked.

“Thirty-eight point what?” Sherlock asked grimly.

“Did you see it?” John asked back. He got a stony glare in return. “Point 4. You knew?”

Sherlock scoffed under his breath. “Of course I knew.”

“I didn’t know you could tell your own temperature.”

“Well, it’s inexact.”

“Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.” Sherlock rolled his eyes sky-ward but acquiesced. The light from the otoscope showed that his tonsils were red and inflamed, but had no pus that would indicate strep throat. John pursed his lips, knowing Sherlock was not going to like the next few steps of the examination since he would be touched. “I’m going to look in your ears and nose and then do a brief physical exam.”

The ears looked good, but not surprisingly looking in the nasal cavity showed more inflammation as well as a lot of congestion. John put his tools away and gently pressed on Sherlock’s face directly below his eyes, which likely hurt, and then gently felt under his neck to check his lymph nodes, causing Sherlock to flinch away from his touch. “Sorry, sorry,” John said, meaning it. His gloves snapped as he removed them, his fingers buzzing from being allowed to actually touch Sherlock. John wondered if he was the only one who felt the unnameable tension between them, as Sherlock looked directly into his eyes. 

All results confirmed that it looked like clu, though John decided not to mention the silly name to Sherlock. “Well?” asked Sherlock, impatiently.

“Did this come on suddenly or gradually?”

“Gradually. It started last night. Like a cold.”

“I could run upstairs and get a strep test and a flu test if you want. Have the lab here run it.” 

“Why bother? You don’t think it’s flu or strep.”

John cracked a brief smile. “No, I don’t.”

“So what is it?”

“Some unspecified upper respiratory virus. I’ve seen a lot of it at the clinic the last few weeks. Comes on gradually, seems to make people sicker than a cold but not quite like flu. My guess is you’ve got a few days of feeling miserable in front of you.”

Sherlock groaned. “I don’t have time for this. A case could come at any moment. How many days?”

“I don’t know. That’s impossible to predict. I’ve written some people out of work for 3 days.”

“Three days! That’s an eternity! Can’t you give me something?”

“You know there’s nothing for it, other than paracetamol. And fluids. And rest. Which you need to do. Let’s go home, you look done in. I’ll make you soup.” John gathered up Sherlock’s coat and handed it to him. Sherlock’s hair was tumbling across his forehead. John resisted the urge to brush it away.

“I don’t want soup. I’m not hungry.”

Perhaps Sherlock wasn’t the only one in for a miserable few days.  
______

When they got back to the flat John began bustling about in the kitchen. “Why don’t you go change into something more comfortable?”

Sherlock removed his suit jacket and shoes, acting as belligerent as he felt. “I’m comfortable like this.”

John held his gaze from across the room. Petulantly, Sherlock picked up his violin, sat in his chair and slouched down, starting to play it. He sneezed three times in quick succession into his elbow and when he pulled back his shirtsleeve showed the product of the sneezing.

“Ugh! This is disgusting!”

“Serves you right, you should have listened to me. Go change.”

Sherlock stomped into his room. He rustled around in his dresser for appropriate loungewear and finally found pajama pants and an old long sleeved tee-shirt that he pulled over his aching head. He couldn’t believe his body was betraying him like this. It was infuriating. Since he had stopped using he hardly ever got sick, although he had constantly had colds, and sometimes worse, before he got clean. It had probably been 3 years since he felt this wretched, and back then he had successfully been able to ignore his transport by working through it, although Lestrade had finally insisted he go home at some point. After that he’d fallen into bed and slept for 12 hours, and woken up almost completely well. With John in his way it would be impossible to wear himself out like that.

He wrapped his dressing gown around himself and made his way into the kitchen, seating himself at the table. John plunked down a full glass of water and what Sherlock surmised to be two paracetamol tablets in front of him, saying, “Here you go.”

“Don’t you have anything stronger?” he demanded.

“No. And if I did I wouldn’t give it to you for an upper respiratory virus. You’ll feel better if you take that, though.”

Sherlock reluctantly took the pills and chased them with a sip of water. “Drink the whole thing,” said John. “You need fluids. Soup’s almost ready.” 

John was slicing up a baguette while he said it. Sherlock drank the rest of the glass of water and practically slammed it down onto the counter, causing John to jump. “You went down to Speedy’s and bought bread?”

“We’re having tomato soup here so I figured it’d go well.”

“Mmmmph.” Sherlock drummed his right index and middle fingers on the table, simultaneously bored and too miserable to do anything about it. His eyes followed John as he continued to prepare dinner, somehow fascinated by watching a man putter about the kitchen. He shook his head to redirect himself. Moments later John placed soup and bread in front of him, which he consumed without zest. He could barely taste anything stuffed up the way he was, and the heat from the soup left his eyes and nose streaming. John sat across from him looking moderately concerned. 

“If this is just some harmless virus why are you sitting over there looking so worried?” Sherlock snapped.

John smiled. “Just a little thing called empathy that most of the human race is cursed with. I can tell you don’t feel well and I’m sorry for it.”

Between feeling sick and his vehement dislike for being weak, Sherlock was now completely irritated. “I don’t want your damn empathy. I want you to give me something that will fix this.” He picked up his dishes and put them in the sink, stalking into the living room. He gathered up the papers that had spilled all over the floor when he fell asleep earlier, and took them into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

John’s kindness and open expression of sentiment sometimes unaccountably disturbed Sherlock, sending him into spasms of irritation. Sentiment was unfamiliar and made him feel so odd he needed to push back on it. As he sat cross-legged on his bed guilt began to set in. John was just trying to help, he saw that. He didn’t want to drive John away, despite what his actions seemed to indicate. He was angry about being sick, not angry at John. He was picking up on things and he knew what they meant - John’s eye dilation and slightly rapid breathing while physically examining him. What he understood less well was his own reaction to these things. Bah! Sentiment. He spread the papers out, deciding to focus on them instead of his disobedient emotions.

______

With Sherlock pouting in his bedroom John was free to roam the flat as he pleased. He did the dishes and put away the remainder of the baguette. He cleared the kitchen table of the rest of Sherlock’s lab equipment, which was fortunately not in use - and wouldn’t be for a few days if John could help it. Then he logged into the computer and looked at when he was next scheduled to locum. Not until after Christmas. He thought Sherlock would be through the worst of it by then, so didn’t bother to try to make any adjustments to his schedule.

The flat was relatively quiet for the rest of the evening. Sherlock exited his room once and headed straight for the bathroom. He looked sufficiently surly that John decided not to engage with him. Perhaps he should have been more irritated by Sherlock’s current attitude, but his heart wasn’t in it. Being sick was no fun. At about 10:00 John brushed his teeth, washed his face, and climbed the stairs to his own bed, having not spoken a word to his flatmate through the rest of the night.

Hours later, John found himself coming to suddenly in the dark. There had been no nightmares for months; he wondered what it was that had woken him. Moments later, a fit of coughing sounded from downstairs. Ah, so that was it. He turned over to glance at the clock - it was 2:00am. John always thought of that time as the deepest part of the night, and it was often a time when an illness seemed at its worst. He headed downstairs, unwilling to make Sherlock face the time alone no matter how he groused.

Sherlock was upright on the sofa with blanket wrapped around him, sitting in the dark, looking at his phone. His wheezing breath was audible as John came to stand beside him. “Did you come to witness my misery?”

John rolled his eyes at that. “Don’t be dramatic. How long have you been out here?”

“An hour.” Sherlock broke out in another coughing fit. His eyes were red and weepy, and he sounded a bit like he was trying to talk through mud between what John imagined to be a sore throat and his obvious congestion.

John leaned against the sofa and placed the back of his hand against Sherlock’s head. He was quite warm. “Did you sleep at all? How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m about to bring up a lung. No, I didn’t sleep. As soon as I lay down I start coughing.” 

“Looks like you’re coughing when you sit up, too. Let’s see if we can make you a bit more comfortable.” John went into the bathroom and rummaged for a moment in the cabinet in there. He found an old but not-yet-expired jar of Vicks he had brought from his single flat when he’d moved in. He also got a flannel out of the linen closet, which he dampened and popped into the microwave for 45 seconds. He brought both items back out to the living room with him. “Here, put your feet up on the sofa and prop your head on the arm.”

Sherlock grumbled softly but followed his directions. John opened up the Vicks rub. “Scoop some of this out and spread it on your chest.”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on. It’ll open up your airway and let you breathe a bit better. You’re wheezing.”

“You do it.”

John was shocked but also, he had to admit, a little bit thrilled at the idea of being invited to touch Sherlock. He paused for a minute, pressing his lips together. “All right. Lift your shirt up. And close your eyes and lay your head back, I’ve got something else to help, too.” John placed the warm, damp cloth over Sherlock’s closed eyes, the bridge of his nose, and his upper cheeks. Sherlock was holding up his shirt with his right hand and reached his left hand up to hold the cloth in place with an audible sigh of relief.

Sherlock’s covered eyes made it less likely that he would notice any signs of attraction John displayed. John had kept his feelings, barely acknowledged to himself, under wraps well enough. Yet those feelings were poking through into his consciousness, seeing Sherlock vulnerable, tugging on his caretaking impulses. There might never be a time to reveal those feelings, he thought as he dipped his hand in vapo-rub, but he certainly didn’t want Sherlock to deduce it out of him when he was supposed to be providing dispassionate medical attention. He spread the Vicks over Sherlock’s chest, his fingers thrilling at the smooth, slender body on display. John was careful not to linger too long and after mere moments advised Sherlock to pull his shirt back down and made a quick exit to wash his hands in the bathroom.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said, as John eased himself into his chair.

“You’re welcome,” John replied, a little surprised. “You need to get some sleep. I know you’re not accustomed to listening to your body, but you’re not going to get well if you don’t get some rest.”

“Of course I’ll get well, upper respiratory viruses are self-limiting infections.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, you would argue with the dead. Yes, you’ll get well either way. But it’ll be quicker - and probably feel better - if you take care of yourself. No more running off to the lab. And no staying up all night reading.”

“Dull. Is this how regular people live their lives? Resting? Whatever do you occupy yourselves with?”

“I dunno. Television, books. Conversation with friends.”

“What do you talk about?”

 

“It depends. Could be current events, or common people you know, or the past. Or the future.” Actually, one of the things about living with Sherlock that was nice was how John didn’t have to talk about himself if he didn’t want to. Sherlock just knew any number of things about him without asking, requiring little explanation from John himself, except for those instances when he, as Sherlock referred to it, “misinterpreted the data.”

“What do you talk about with Mike Stamford?”

“Studying together at Bart’s. My unsuccessful dating life,” John laughed. “How old we are and how young we used to be.” 

“Sounds like a waste of time,” Sherlock said, sighing. “Tell me about studying at Bart’s.”

John launched into a story that he knew Sherlock would like about his first time in a cadaver lab and how the man he had been partnered with had passed out, knocking over their cadaver and sending organs tumbling. Gratifyingly, Sherlock snorted laughter. Then John took to describing less interesting things, like class schedules and what he studied year by year. After what seemed a long time of talking, Sherlock’s breath deepened and John knew he was asleep. 

John removed the wet flannel from his flatmate’s eyes, and tucked his blanket more securely around him. He thought about going back to bed but he didn’t want to leave Sherlock in case he started coughing again. He settled down into Sherlock’s armchair, moderately more comfortable than his own, turned the lamp on its lowest setting, and cracked open his novel again.


	3. Bargaining

Sherlock was less than delighted to wake up in his still-aching, congested transport. His phone was vibrating where it lay on his chest, obscured by the the duvet. He squinted at the text message coming through in the dim early-morning light. It was from Lestrade:  _ Body found in Hampstead need your help _

Sherlock could hear John snoring softly across the room. He sat up. John was asleep in Sherlock’s armchair, head cocked at an uncomfortable-looking angle. Sherlock wondered if he would be able to sneak out of flat without John noticing. It would make John furious if Sherlock sneaked out, he was sure. And though he mostly didn’t care about the feelings of others, he decided he didn’t want to make John furious. Perhaps Lestrade could convince John that he needed to let Sherlock leave the flat. 

Sherlock tapped a message out in return:  _ Pick me up. Come up to flat on arrival. _

He compelled his leaden body off of the couch and headed toward the bathroom. The world spun slightly and it felt like he was moving underwater. He couldn’t breathe through his nose at all and swallowing was agony. How was he going to deduce like this? It was wretched. He turned the shower on, peeled off his clothes and stepped in. 

There were many places in the flat where Sherlock did wonderful, logical thinking. The kitchen was his location for experiments. He reviewed loads of data in his bedroom. And of course the sofa was a favorite place for long journeys through his mind palace. But the shower was the place where sentiment, when he experienced it, seemed to creep up on him. As it was now.

Sherlock knew John was attracted to him. The signs were all there. However, until recently, John didn’t seem to notice his feelings for Sherlock. But based on John’s little trick last night covering Sherlock’s eyes when applying Vicks, Sherlock believed John now realized that he was giving off signals of attraction. And Sherlock felt those feelings mirrored in himself. Why, oh why, had he ever invited the man to rub that disgusting mentholated jelly all over his chest? The fever must be affecting his judgment.

As the room filled with steam his body sought to rid itself of phlegm as his mind struggled to process his emotions.

Of course there had been an immediate synergy between himself and John Watson. That was part of why they had ended up as flatmates. It hadn’t escaped him that John had used some of their early time together to inquire about his dating habits - perhaps for reasons he was not even conscious of at the time. But Sherlock had never expected to end up not only physically attracted to his flatmate, but emotionally involved with him. And, while he thought John may have had bisexual urges in the past, he didn’t believe the good doctor had acted on them. While Sherlock had had many casual encounters with his share of men over the years, chances that he would end up - what, liking? falling for? - his flatmate were so infinitesimally small that Sherlock hadn’t given the risk any thought. And here they were, with Sherlock weakened in body and evidently in self-control, potentially stuck under John’s watchful eye until he could kick this virus.

By the time he turned off the water he wasn’t sure if he felt better or worse, and could only hope he hadn’t woken John with his hawking and coughing. He was careful not to look toward the sitting room when he emerged and instead beat a retreat to his room and began dressing himself. Just as he was tucking his button-down shirt into his black trousers, he heard a car door slam in front of the flat. Had to be Lestrade.

John was wandering toward the kitchen rubbing his neck when Sherlock burst out of his bedroom.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” John asked as Sherlock sped through the sitting room and toward the door in his bare feet. 

Not acknowledging the question, Sherlock flung open the front door, took one look at Lestrade and groaned. “Not you, too.”

John came around the door to see who was causing this comment. Lestrade was damp from the rain and looked full of cold. Sherlock could see his own symptoms reflected in the man - everything from sore throat to chest congestion to fever.

“Come in,” said John. “You look bloody awful.”

“I feel it,” said Lestrade, sounding every bit as bad as he appeared. 

“Sit down,” John said. “I was just about to put some tea on, you can have some. What the hell are you doing here?” 

Lestrade sat in John’s chair and started to answer, but was cut off by a fit of coughing. Sherlock collapsed dramatically on the couch, knowing what was coming next. When Lestrade had recovered enough to continue, he said, “I have a case for Sherlock. He said to come pick him up.”

“Did he now?” John raised an eyebrow.

“Why is he allowed to run all about the city with his brains leaking out of his nose and I can’t even leave the flat?” Sherlock demanded, sitting up and throwing his arms out in the direction of the DI, who was now blowing his nose.

“Because he doesn’t have a medically trained flatmate monitoring his actions.” John answered. Sherlock watched some kind of sentiment cross John’s face fleetingly. John filled three mugs and placed tea bags in him, and said to Lestrade, “And you probably shouldn’t be out working like this, actually.”

“I know. But the whole Yard seems to be down with it, and it’s the week of Christmas and all that,” Lestrade replied hoarsely.

“Tell me about the case,” said Sherlock 

John had grabbed a penlight out of the kitchen drawer and fetched a thermometer from the bathroom. “Open up,” he commanded.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Sherlock.

“Oh I don’t think I need any of that,” said Lestrade at the same time.

Sherlock watched as John held the DI’s gaze until the man opened his mouth and closed it around the thermometer. While the thermometer was doing its work, John brought Sherlock tea and set a mug down by Lestrade just as it beeped. John frowned at the reading. “Open your mouth and say ‘ah”,” he said, wielding the flashlight. Lestrade obeyed. John clicked off the flashlight and pressed his index and middle finger on either side of the DI’s nose. The man made an “och” sound in the back of his throat as he moved away to avoid the touch. Sherlock relished watching John deploy his medical skill, as long as it wasn’t on him.

“Go home,” said John. “Really. Your temperature is 38.9 degrees and your throat looks so bad I’m tempted to send you to A&E for a strep test even though this has every indication of being the same viral infection Sherlock and seemingly half of London now has."

“Tell me about the case,” Sherlock implored more emphatically. 

“Shut up,” John told him. “You’re not going anywhere. Drink your tea.”

“I could use his help, though, if you do want me to get any rest” said Lestrade, sipping his tea and grimacing as he swallowed. “A man was found outside his home in Hampstead in the middle of the night. Blunt trauma to the back of his head seems to be the cause of death. The weird part is he was loaded down with Christmas parcels and with a wallet full of cash, all untouched. Family says he has no known enemies.”

Sherlock snorted. “That’s hardly a 3.”

“Good,” said John. “Then you can stay here. And you,” he said to Lestrade, “can go home.”

“I can’t. I need to get this one wrapped up before Christmas and I don’t have anyone to work it. Donovan’s out. This family is going to push on this if the investigation doesn’t move forward fast enough, and they have _ connections _ .” Lestrade rolled his eyes at that. “It may not be that interesting but I could use the help.”

Sherlock could see John running through ideas in his head, and he opened his mouth quickly to propose a plan before Sherlock could speak. “All right. How about this? I will go to the crime scene and I can Skype you in there. Lestrade, you can drop me off and then head home. Sherlock, you can finish that tea, have some toast, and rest.”

“Toast?  _ Rest _ ? How can I rest when I know there’s Work to be done?”

John sat down on the sofa next to Sherlock. “I just said I’ll Skype you in. It’ll give you something to occupy your brain while you rest your body. Look at it out there, pissing down rain. You don’t want to go out in that.” John looked long and hard into Sherlock’s face, and licked his lips. “I don’t want you to go out in that.” Sherlock wanted badly to argue further. But John’s look was so authoritative, so intense, so simultaneously soldierly and doctorly, that he was having trouble summoning the will. Aside from that, he felt worse than he was willing to admit out loud. He felt as bad as Lestrade looked.

“You’ll do exactly what I ask at the crime scene?”

“I’ll try. Within reason,” John stipulated.

Sherlock nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off John’s face. Lestrade was watching them with an expression that said he could feel the vibrant tension weaving its way between the two men. Finally, John broke eye contact, saying “Right then.”

______

Having emerged victorious from negotiations with Sherlock (a rarity to be sure) John spent the next several minutes rushing around the flat, drinking his tea, changing, packing up the laptop, and dosing both Sherlock and Lestrade with paracetamol. Finally, he stood by the door, instructing his sulking flatmate, “Sherlock, I’m stopping down to talk to Mrs. Hudson to tell her to check on you and let me know if you leave. If you do leave, I’ll call Mycroft.  And you’ll probably want to change back into your pajamas again, you don’t want to get snot all over that shirt, too.”

Sherlock’s scoff suggested he was mortally offended, John couldn’t tell whether it was about the threat to call his brother or the mention of bodily fluids on his shirt. Lestrade watched all of this with an unreadable expression, and made to follow John out the door.

“Victim’s name?” Sherlock asked.

“James Teabury.,” Lestrade croaked to Sherlock as he crossed the room. “Looks like I’m going home. Let me know if you crack it.”

“ _ When, _ ” John heard Sherlock say, and the door slammed behind them.

Mrs. Hudson was more than happy to keep and ear and eye out for Sherlock, and soon enough Lestrade and John were on their way. “Are you sure you should be driving?” asked John. “Do you want me to take a cab instead?”

“Nah, I’m alright. Medicine’s kicking in. Can’t wait for my bed, though.” Lestrade paused a few beats, looking at the road ahead. “You and him really have something, don’t you?”

“Who, me and Sherlock? Sure. Never had a flatmate that I also solved crimes with. Leads to a surprising level of intimacy.”  _ As does, _ thought John,  _ sharing a flat with someone who is practically a mind-reader. _

“You’ve got a way with him, though. He listens to you in a way he doesn’t listen to other people. He….cares what you think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You know he had flu about 2 or 3 years back. Few years after I started giving him cases, and he was working one with me. He was sick as a dog and still relentless. I tried to make him leave but it was impossible. After 3 days of watching him cough all over evidence I finally drove him home and forced him up to bed. He called me the next afternoon and had it solved.”

“Yep. He’s brilliant. Difficult, but brilliant.” John’s phone pinged as a text came through. “He also just asked if I could collect cultures from your nose and throat.”

Lestrade threw back his head and laughed. John thought something was evolving between him and Sherlock, but he was afraid to reflect on it for too long. He’d been attracted to men before, but hadn’t acted on it in a decade. And being attracted to just any man was oh-so-different than being attracted to your roommate, especially when that roommate was Sherlock. There had been something, though, in Sherlock’s gaze back there at the flat, as John was staring into those pale, beautiful, greenish-blue eyes. John thought whatever passed between him and Sherlock, Lestrade had been able to detect it. He was doing his best to give it some kind of stamp of approval, as someone who at least knew Sherlock fairly well.

John’s train of thought was interrupted as they pulled up at the crime scene. Lestrade climbed out of his car to confer with Anderson while John pulled out his laptop and set up a wifi hotspot. He could see the poor victim lying on the wet pavement of a walkway that ran alongside what could only be called a stately mansion. The mansion was surrounded by a large, secure-looking brick wall. In a sad irony for the season, the old gentleman looked like a thin Santa Claus, especially with the many brightly-wrapped packages littered around him that he had been carrying when he’d been killed.

Sherlock answered his Skype call almost immediately. John could see that he was sitting in the kitchen, looking deliciously rumpled, albeit pale and red-nosed, fiddling with his microscope.

“What are you doing?” asked John.

“Since I’m terribly bored I took cultures from my own nose and throat to look at. It sounds like Lestrade is going to deny me the possibility of looking at his. If you see anybody else sick, ask them. Now where’s the body?”

John held the laptop over the body so that Sherlock could see it and followed the many directions that came next: “Get closer. Now further out again. Show me above him. What’s he next to? What’s on the other side? Close up on the injury to his head.” Finally, after about 15 minutes of following the directions, John heard Sherlock huff with impatience. He turned the laptop back around.

“I’ve got what I need.”

Anderson appeared in the screen over John’s shoulder. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and said, “What are you doing, Anderson?”

“I’m the only one available to help work this case. More’s the pity; everyone’s sick and I’ve just recovered and here I am standing in the sodding rain-”

“Just recovered?” Sherlock interrupted Anderson and John could see him calculating and then narrowing his eyes. “Given the transmission mode, time since I’ve been in the presence of your stupidity, and incubation period of most respiratory viruses this probably made its way to me through YOU. John, get some q-tips. Take cultures from him. It’s the least he can do since….”

John cut him off, saying, “Bye, Sherlock. I’ll be home soon. Get some rest” He closed the laptop and turned to Anderson. “You owe me for that.”

________

Sherlock couldn’t believe John had closed the laptop on him. He sat for a moment gaping at it in surprise. He sent a scathing text message to his flatmate, including some words that he instructed John to read directly to Anderson. Sherlock did not think John would follow through with that directive, but he could always hope.

Quickly he shifted gears to research James Teabury on the laptop and combine the knowledge gained with his observations. Male, lawyer, in his mid-60s, married until recently when he came out as gay, but had cheated on his wife with a cadre of male lovers over the years. Clearly affectionate for his grandchildren, who were the intended recipients of the packages that had been scattered around the man. Crime scene was unremarkable in terms of physical evidence. It was possible someone had scaled the brick wall surrounding his home and hidden there. It was possible that a jilted lover had gained entry with familiarity with the property in some other way. Blunt force trauma to the upper back part of his skull could indicate a number of weapons. 

There was something about the proximity of the body next to the house and the headwound that struck him as odd, but Sherlock couldn’t quite place it. His mind was crowded with his transport’s complaints and stray thoughts about John that seemed to be circling endlessly. When did these John-thoughts start invading him while he was trying to deduce? Why was he playing and replaying the moments when John had taken care of him over the past day in his head? What was  _ happening _ to him? He ran his hand frustratedly through his hair. Ugh, he needed to clear his head.

A few minutes later there was a quick rat-a-tat at the door and Mrs. Hudson burst in with a tray. “Sherlock!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing with your head out the window when you’re ill?”

“Smoking,” he said, demonstratively taking a drag off his cigarette and blowing smoke out into the rain, which was falling down on his upper torso and head as they hung out the window.

“Get back in here. You’re going to catch your death! What would John say if he knew you were smoking?”

“That’s the very topic I was trying to avoid with the open window.” Sherlock flicked the cigarette outside, ducked his head and shoulders back into the flat, snapping the window closed after him.

“Oh, dear, that won’t do,” Mrs. Hudson said, as she grabbed a towel from the bathroom, guided him over to his chair and pushed him gently to a sitting position. She unceremoniously scrubbed the towel over his hair and face. “There, now, that’s better.”

She fetched the tray and put it on the side table near his chair. “Here we are,” she declared. “I’ve made you tea with lemon and honey and some toast.”

“I don’t take tea with lemon and honey. And why do people keep trying to give me _ toast?” _ Sherlock snatched a number of tissues from the box on the floor next to his chair and blew his nose loudly. 

“Sherlock, you sound terrible. Do have some tea. And the toast has cinnamon and sugar on it, I think you’ll quite like it if you give it a try.” Mrs. Hudson bustled about the room, putting the damp towel away, finding an afghan, and tucking it around Sherlock’s shoulders. He grasped the artfully prepared teacup and sipped. Ah, the hot liquid was delightfully soothing over his throat, which felt as though he were a sword swallower. Mrs. Hudson was watching him, eyes full simultaneously of hope and pity. She was dear to him, so he did what he knew she wanted, and took a bite of the toast. It actually was good, and reminded him of things Mummy used to make when he was sick.

“There you are, dear. Well, I’ll just go back downstairs and let you rest.”

What was everyone’s focus on rest? How much could it really help? Although the malaise was slowing him he felt rest _ less _ , in fact. He had to think. Who had killed James Teabury? And why? And what was odd about the positioning of the body?

“Good-bye Mrs, Hudson,” he croaked. “Thank you.”


	4. Grief

John was out longer than he expected after visiting the crime scene. The clinic was swamped with cases and called to asked if he could come fill in for a few hours. Since Mrs. Hudson was already assigned to Sherlock at that point, he stopped by and helped for a bit and told them he would see what he could do about the next day. On the way home, he picked up Pho, which was his favorite cure-all for everything from hangovers to flu. Hopefully he would be able to get Sherlock to eat some.

John lugged the Pho up to the flat. A quick glance showed him that Sherlock was not stretched out on the sofa, which did not bode well for him resting. John could tell which places Sherlock had sat throughout the day - there were piles of used tissues beside every formerly-occupied space. Sherlock himself was in the kitchen, examining something under the microscope. 

“What are those?” asked John, wrinkling his nose, looking at roughly a dozen containers of samples spread across the kitchen table.

“Mold samples from around the building. I’m comparing to see if similar mold turns up in different places.”

“Ugh!” John exclaimed. “That’s all mold from the flat? That’s disgusting, Sherlock! You’re not growing that on purpose, are you?”

“It’s not just from our  _ flat, _ it’s from all over our the  _ building, _ including Mrs. Hudson’s flat and Speedy’s. I’m not growing any on purpose,” he said, haughty, despite his stuffed nose, “it’s  _ naturally occurring _ .”

“Lovely,” said John. “Just grand. Could you put that stuff away and have some of this Pho? It’s good for colds and flu.”

John knew Sherlock liked Asian food and it worked to his advantage as he stacked his samples up and moved them over to a counter. “I shouldn’t eat. I haven’t solved the Teabury murder yet,” Sherlock explained. “There’s something odd about the body. It’s unusually close to the house. Why did he fall that way when he was hit?”

“Ah, a little broth and noodles won’t hurt,” John replied, pushing the bag of take out toward Sherlock.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “I can’t _ think _ right now. When will this be over? It’s so annoying.”

“Well, that depends, doesn’t it?  As it stands, you’re not resting. You’re drawing it out longer.” Sherlock glared at this response. In reply, John pursed his lips, shrugged, and tucked into his soup. If Sherlock didn’t want to take his advice seriously, so be it.

Over their Pho Sherlock recounted his deductions from John’ Skyping, including his opinion about the James Teabury’s sexuality. Sherlock had proven to have rather impeccable gaydar. It made John wonder if Sherlock knew about his past relationships with men. More than that, though, he wondered about Sherlock. Had Sherlock had any kind of relationships? And if so, with whom? John, who, being bisexual, made use of his decent gaydar, thought that if Sherlock was attracted to  _ anyone _ , it was likely men. But it was also possible he was asexual.

After they finished eating, Sherlock took up his thinking pose on the sofa, although with his head inclined more than usual to ease his breathing. John cleaned up the multitude of used tissues (if he needed further proof of his growing affection for Sherlock, he need look no further than cleaning up the man’s used tissues), finished the blog entry for a case they had solved a few months ago, made some edits into charts through the clinic’s electronic records system, and read some of his book. Feeling tired from his interrupted sleep the night before, he decided to turn in early, advising Sherlock to baste himself in Vicks if he started coughing again. Now that John thought of it, he probably should have picked up some cough syrup. Too late now.

“You ought to go to bed soon, Sherlock,” John said. “You’re not helping yourself.”

His flatmate summarily ignored him. John went to his bedroom, prepared for bed, and fell asleep promptly.

John awoke in the dark to someone rasping his name. He sat bolt upright and switched on his bedside lamp. Sherlock was standing beside his bed. “What the  _ hell _ , Sherlock?” he asked, scrubbing his hands across his face. He glanced at the clock. He was experiencing a 2am wake-up call for the second time in as many days. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve figured it out,” said Sherlock, sitting on the edge of John’s bed with his legs crossed, like a child, ignoring all kinds of boundaries.

“You figured what out? What are you doing up? Have you been to bed yet?”

  
“I know how James Teabury died. He wasn’t murdered. It was a freak accident.”

John took a deep breath and blinked his eyes in attempt to wake up. Sherlock looked bright-eyed, likely from solving the crime, but possibly also from fever. His red nose and eyes stood out shockingly from his pale skin. He was wheezing slightly again. John was going to have to address those things, but first he would listen. “Ok. What happened?”

“It was an icicle. The night that James Teabury went out shopping was the last night the temperatures were below freezing. It had started to warm by the time he was bringing his gifts home. The icicle came dislodged from his roof, fell, and hit him in the back of the head. Molly texted me pictures of his injury earlier - it looks entirely consistent according to my research.”

“Nicely done. Crime solved. Can you get some sleep now?”

“I need to do one more thing to verify my theory.”

John groaned softly and fell back onto his pillow, closing his eyes. “What?”

“I need to go to the crime scene and see the pitch and positioning of the roof and eaves over where his body was found.”

John sat back up and considered for a moment. “You know, I’m tempted to let you,” he said, and Sherlock looked hopeful. “And I probably would let you, if you had made any attempt whatsoever to take care of yourself so far. But you haven’t. You’ve fought me most of the time while I’ve been trying to take care of you. How do you feel? And don’t lie. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Sherlock took a deep, hitching breath in, which set off a coughing fit. “My head hurts; my chest hurts; my whole body aches; I can barely swallow. My temperature is hovering around 38 degrees. This is the worst I’ve felt in years. But I  _ need to know if I’m right _ .”

“Shhh. I know you do. Look, I’ll go over in the morning and take pictures for you again. I’ll do it first thing if you just go….to….sleep.” John lay back down again.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, and then lay next to him. To say John was shocked was an enormous understatement. Sherlock lay near him but not touching him and the unspoken, unexplained tension that had recently been rearing its head seeped into the space between them. Sherlock reached over and turned off the light, and John nudged his blanket around so Sherlock could lay under it as well. John took a deep breath through his nose, and whatever else he had thought to say was consumed by one question. “Sherlock, have you been  _ smoking _ ?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock said in his gravelly sick-bed voice beside John.

John was tempted to roll over and kiss him. To see if he could taste the cigarette John knew he had smoked. He fell asleep wondering whether Sherlock would kiss back.

________

Sherlock didn’t think he had ever slept so well in his life, in spite of his blocked nose and aching limbs. John’s bed was a lovely place to be. He felt safe and warm; he was enjoying listening to John snore gently beside him. But even before he opened his eyes, something felt off about the room. This feeling was confirmed when he opened his eyes to a sideways-view of Mycroft, sitting in the chair positioned in the corner of John’s bedroom.

“What are you _ doing  _ in here?” he hissed.

“What are  _ you _ doing in here?” Mycroft shot back in a whisper, raising his aristocratic, annoying eyebrow.

Sherlock squirmed out from under John’s arm, which was lying across him in an incriminating fashion. He managed to extricate himself from the bed without waking John, and he pointed urgently at the door, indicating that Mycroft should follow him _ immediately _ as he swept out of the room and down the stairs.

When they had reached the sitting room Sherlock rounded on Mycroft. “What are you doing, breaking into the flat, and coming up into John’s bedroom? What is your constant need to be in my business?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” sighed Mycroft.  “First of all, I had no need to break into the flat. Mrs. Hudson kindly let me in downstairs and your door wasn’t even locked. I know you’ve been sick; I didn’t find you in the kitchen, sitting room, your bedroom, or the bathroom. Which left one place to check before I went into full-on search mode. Just when I thought you couldn’t surprise me anymore, you somehow manage to do so.”

“Surprise you?  _ Surprise you _ ? You think you know me so well -” 

“I do know you  _ so well,  _ I know what you’re thinking and what you’re feeling and what you’ve been doing.  _ Smoking  _ when you’re ill, brother dear?  _ That _ should speed along your recovery. And if you think -”

They were close together now, snarling into each other’s faces, when they heard John shuffling around in his bedroom and start down the stairs. Sherlock turned on his heel, his dressing gown flaring out behind him, and huffed his way to the sofa.

“Good morning, Sherlock -,” John began and took in the room, tilting his head and finishing, “Mycroft. Hello. What are you doing here?”

“I thought I might come and keep my brother company today,” Mycroft said. “I suspected that you might be needed at the clinic today with the spread of cold and flu in London currently. Despite his assertion that I do not know him well I understand perfectly the progression of illness in one Sherlock Holmes. Days 1, 2, and some times 3, denial and continuing to work as much as possible. Day 3 or 4 complete collapse. Recovery in the days after. What day are we on today?”

“Day 3, I think,” said John.

“Oh, delightful,” said Mycroft. “I brought soup - Mummy’s recipe.”

John went around and sat on the coffee table, directly in front of Sherlock. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock insisted.

“Well, you don’t look fine.” John placed his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. “I don’t like that you still have this fever. But I do need to go to the clinic today if I can. They need me. Will you be all right here with Mycroft?”

Sherlock wanted to say no. He wanted to tell John to make his irritating brother go away so they could spend the day together. But he knew John would have the clinic and its needs in the back of his mind if he did that. The feeling of wanting to be selfish and keep John to himself warred with his desire to make John happy - a confusing feeling.

“Of course I’ll be all right with Mycroft. I survived my whole bloody childhood with him, didn’t I?” Sherlock said quietly, and added, raising his voice. “Although I don’t know about Mycroft. This might be catching.” He sneezed then, which, while not planned, was well-timed.

Mycroft gave a tight little smile. “I’m vaccinated against diseases you’ve never even heard of, I assure you.”

“I doubt that,” snapped Sherlock. John looked very much like he did not want to be present for this argument. “I’ll need you to verify my theory, though.”

“Right,” said John. “Your theory.” Sherlock watched his face. John was thinking about being woken up by Sherlock in the middle of the night, he could tell. He watched as a mild blush bloomed over his flatmate’s cheeks. Ah, another sign of a attraction. Sherlock felt his own fever-flushed cheeks wanting to respond in kind.

John headed to the bathroom, presumably to ready himself for the day ahead. Mycroft ignored both of them for the time being, waiting, Sherlock was sure, until John departed to pounce on him again. 

Sherlock wished he was in a more self-protective mood and position. Though he was loathe to admit it, Mycroft’s assessment of the progression of his illness was accurate. Although he had felt unquestionably ill the last few days, he now felt depleted of energy, heavy and dull. His chest, head,  and back ached and drawing breath was not as easy as it should have been. Perhaps the two cigarettes in which he had indulged had not been the best idea. Laying on the couch he felt like he could barely keep his eyes open, in fact. Perhaps he would close them for a few minutes….

When Sherlock opened his eyes again he estimated that about an hour had passed. John had let. The winter light was pouring in the window now. He sat up and looked around, dazed. Mycroft was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, with his suit jacket off, reading the newspaper. Sherlock groaned softly.

“I thought if I slept long enough you might have left,” he said, trying to clear his throat.

“There are some conversations that cannot be avoided,” said Mycroft. “There are tablets and glass of water on the coffee table. John said drink it all. He thinks you’re not getting enough fluids. I’ll make some tea as well.”

Sherlock scooted into a sitting position, over the protest of his body. He swallowed the tablets and glass of water through the pain in his throat. His transport was in full rebellion. Mycroft brought him the tea, and sat rather closer than Sherlock had hoped, at the other end of the sofa.

“Sentiment, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, tilting his head and smiling

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock scoffed.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. How did you weasel your way into John Watson’s bed? It appears you’re still platonic - but I don’t think you want to be.” Mycroft’s voice lifted softly at the end of his sentence, making it an almost-question.

Sherlock sighed. “Even if that were true, he’s my flatmate. Smarter not to get involved.”

“You know what I often say about just this sort of thing, brother mine?” asked Mycroft.

“Yes. Caring is not an advantage. I know. Worrying about my flatmate and what he thinks of me and his comfort and desires….caring about those things is a lot of trouble.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “Caring is not an advantage. But, sometimes, it’s also not an option.”

_ Mycroft said I can still surprise him _ , thought Sherlock.  _ And against all odds he sure as hell is surprising me _ .

________

The cab pulled up outside of James Teabury’s place and John climbed out of it. This was the worst possible weather as far as he was concerned - a few degrees above freezing, damp and rainy. It made his shoulder and leg ache. Anderson met him at the gate. He followed Anderson through the gate and looked at the approximate area where the body had been found. He looked at the directions Sherlock had texted.

He was going to have to lay on the wet ground for this photo. He should have brought a change of clothes. Stupid.

John crouched on the ground and then lowered himself until he was laying on the pavement beside the house. He scooted himself around so his head was roughly level with the bloodstain from Teabury’s injury. He was trying to focus the camera on his phone above him properly when Anderson drifted into his frame of vision.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking a picture of the crime scene as I was asked,” John said through his teeth, feeling the damp soak through his pants and coat and the rain fall on his face. He held the phone above his face and clicked.

“You would do anything for him, wouldn’t you?”

John thought about ignoring the question. “He caught lurgy from you, apparently,” he said. “I’m just trying to confirm this theory so he’ll rest.”

Anderson scoffed in reply. John climbed back into a standing position and contemplated the question of whether he should text the pictures to Sherlock, who had been asleep when he left the flat, and risk waking him, or whether he should wait. He decided it would be better to risk waking him than to have to come back and lay on the wet pavement again, and sent the text. Sherlock texted back almost immediately:  _ Theory confirmed. SH. _

With that task out of the way, John said good-bye to Anderson and caught another cab to head to the surgery. While in the cab he texted with Harry to confirm their upcoming plans on Christmas Day. He wondered if Sherlock would be visiting his parents on that day, spending it at Mycroft’s place, or generally ignoring it. 

There was an overwhelming number of coughing, sneezing individuals crowded into the waiting room. He changed out of his damp clothes and into scrubs. The next few hours were a whirl of general examinations, strep tests, and cough medicine prescriptions. Though exhausting, it served as a meaningful distraction from John’s current mood, which could be called melancholy. Now that he was aware of his own feelings towards Sherlock how could they go on like this? Could he have a flatmate that he was attracted to come into his bedroom in the middle of the night, and be ok with not acting on it? And if not, what should he do? If he were to reveal his feelings, the level of sentiment might repel Sherlock. It might mean they couldn’t live together anymore, couldn’t be partners in solving crimes.

Or….it might mean they could be partners in every true sense of the word. 

John ran into Lisa Glenn when there was momentary lull in his activity. John respected Lisa as a physician, and he also liked her as a person. She was in her 50s and had a faintly motherly air about her that was reassuring. She gave John an assessing look when she saw him. “I thought you weren’t in today,” she said.

“Yeah, well, you see the crowd. Sarah contacted me and asked if I could spare any time. I can.”

Lisa narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you all right? You look a bit off.”

“My flatmate’s been down with whatever everyone in our waiting room has. I’ve been doctoring at home, too”

“That’s good of you. Not everyone would do that for a flatmate. But I hear yours is special.”

John smiled to himself, bemused. “Special. Yes, that’s what he is.”

Finally, after several more hours of work than he had expected, he was able to head back to the flat. He stopped at Tesco’s and got some cough medicine and additional paracetamol, knowing Sherlock would still need both. By the time he got home it was late afternoon.

Sherlock was swaddled in his duvet on the sofa in modified thinking pose. Mycroft was tip tapping away on his mobile phone. There were various board games scattered throughout the room, evidence of how Sherlock had been entertained that day. Although he had clearly been resting, he had dark smudges of fatigue under his eyes.

“Dr. Watson,” said Mycroft. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks. And how are we doing?” It was a general question for the room, since Sherlock had so far been loathe to admit how he felt unless forced.

Sherlock turned toward John. “I’m prepared,” he said, “to fully submit myself to your care.”

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What does that mean?”

“I’m sick. Fix me”

John’s eyebrows shot up even higher. He looked at Mycroft, who was rolling down his shirtsleeves and buttoning his cuffs, for an explanation. 

“Complete collapse,” explained Mycroft, “followed in this case by compliance with medical advice.” Mycroft’s expression read,  _ take it while you can get it. _

“All right,” said John. “I can work with that.” He turned to Sherlock. “How about I draw you a bath?”

__________

Miserable as he felt, Sherlock delighted in John’s full and unwavering attention. He had spent the day in a fog of utter sadness. All it took was Mycroft pointing out, outloud, his attraction to John to open up a floodgate of possibilities and fears. Sherlock spent the day wading through a swamp of confusion - afraid to lose the closeness and affection he and John currently shared, but forced to acknowledge that he wanted more. Was it better to leave things how they were - with the clear tension of their attraction existing between them, unacknowledged? Or was it better to try for something more - and perhaps to fail?

But once John was home and Mycroft left, he didn’t have to think about it. He could revel in spending time with the man himself, limiting his distracting internal emotional struggle. John drew a scaldingly hot bath for him, which was fantastic. When he emerged from the bathroom, dressed in pajamas, John was there, looking tender and a little careworn. 

“Get into your bed,” he said. 

“Yes, doctor,” Sherlock replied with mock-annoyance, John rewarding him with a smile. He climbed into sheets that John had clearly just changed. There were two tissue boxes beside the bed, one opened, plus a back-up, as well as full glass of water. And just as he had settled himself into bed, John returned with a tray, laden with the soup Mycroft had brought, the leftover baguette from a few days ago, orange juice, paracetamol tablets, and cough medicine.

“All right,” said John. “The best thing you can do to recover is sleep. Mycroft said you ate nothing today but did at least drink lots of water and tea - thank you. I want you to eat all this, take your the medicine, and then mentally prepare yourself for  _ rest and sleep _ .”

John started to head back out into the hall. “Where are you going?” asked Sherlock.

“Out to the kitchen to have some dinner.”

“Eat in here. With me.”

John tilted his head to the side and looked at Sherlock. “All right.” He left and came back with his own bowl of soup, and sat at the end of Sherlock’s bed. “Did you tell Lestrade about James Teabury?”

“Of course.”

 

“He must be glad that one is done and over with. And not even a murder. Sad, though.”

“Yes." Sherlock paused, observing John, deducing. "You saw tons of cases today with people who have this damn cold. Why didn’t you bring me any samples?”

John chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. Their conversation continued comfortably from there, except for Sherlock’s rapidly fading voice. When they finished, John took the dishes and tray and left. Sherlock could see that John was exhausted. He wasn’t sure that John himself was aware of his exhaustion. His bullet wound was bothering him, too - maybe from the cold, damp air? An idea occurred to Sherlock while he made his way to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, feeling drained and dizzy still.

When John came back in, as Sherlock knew he would, he was conveniently dressed in sweatpants and a tee-shirt. Sherlock knew he would be able to employ his plan, to get what he wanted - to experiment with closeness to John.

“All right. Light’s out,” John said.

“John - “ Sherlock began, but he was interrupted.

“No, no, no, you told me you would listen to doctor’s orders so you could get better,” said John. “Don’t start fighting with me now, you were so close to making this easy, for once in your life.”

Sherlock snorted. “I’m not going to argue. I was going to say you look exhausted. Do you want to lay down?”

John drew his eyebrows down and pursed his lips, confused. “Lay down?”

“Here. With me.”

There was a pause for several beats, during which Sherlock couldn’t manage to squeeze air in and out of his lungs - and not because of his illness. Finally, John said. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll be back.”

When he returned, he smelled of toothpaste and soap. “I’ll lay here for a bit,” he said, clicking off the light. Sherlock knew better. He fell asleep knowing John would be there when he awoke.


	5. Acceptance

Sherlock woke in the dark of early morning, uncomfortably chilled. Automatically taking stock of his body, he realized his fever had finally broken, and he had both sweated through his clothes and kicked off the duvet. Disgusting. John was deep asleep beside him, snoring rather more loudly than he had the previous night. He didn’t want to wake John, but needed to change his clothes at the very least. He rolled out of bed and made his way to his dresser, opening it and quietly tossing through its contents.

In short order he found and changed into new pajamas. He stretched where he stood by the dresser, feeling some relief from the aches that had been plaguing his body now that the fever had dissipated. For the first time in days his nose was less congested, at least when he was standing, and he could think clearly.

Sherlock turned where he was standing to watch John sleep. It was not normal behavior to watch one’s flatmate sleep. On the other hand, it was not normal for one’s flatmate to agree to sleep in one’s bed. But here they were.

Things couldn’t go on this way, Sherlock realized, with the kind of clarity he typically experienced when a number of observations coalesced together to form a deduction. One of them was going to have to acknowledge their mutual attraction. It was just a question of who would bring it up first - and when and how. Sherlock wasn’t sure that he was brave enough to be the person to surface the issue.

He made his way back to the side of the bed he had been laying on, trying to find a comfortable position without waking John. It didn’t work - John was a relatively light sleeper from his years as a doctor and a soldier. He stirred awake and sat up, clearing his throat and looking mildly confused as to where he was. He gazed over at Sherlock with his brows drawn down and then seemed to remember what he was doing there. “How you feeling?” he asked quietly.

“Better. My fever broke.”

John smiled. “Yeah? Great.” He swallowed convulsively and cleared his throat again. He shifted his way towards the edge of the bed. 

“Where are you going?” Sherlock didn’t want John to leave. It was still only 4am, and while sometimes Sherlock got up at odd hours like 4am, Sherlock had counted on John staying for longer.”

“Getting a glass of water,” he mumbled fuzzily, rubbing his forehead.

Sherlock’s observations of John were adding up to something - louder snoring indicating congestion, throat clearing indicating possible soreness, and forehead rubbing indicating headache. Was John getting sick? Would he go up to his bedroom or come back and lay in Sherlock’s bed? Sherlock sat up, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, and waited. 

Moments later, John re-entered the room, carrying two glasses of water - one half-empty and the other full. He handed Sherlock the full glass. “Have some. You still need plenty of fluids,” he said. He sipped water from his own glass, placed it on the nightstand, and lay back down. With the long practice of a doctor who was used to snatching what rest he could, he fell asleep quickly.

Relieved, Sherlock lay back down. Instead of sleeping, he watched John, and wondered what would happen next.

_______

When John woke up again, bright winter sunlight was streaming through the window. It was December 23, Christmas Eve eve as he sometimes jokingly referred to the date. It looked to be a beautiful day for people to finish their holiday shopping and preparations. And he felt like absolute rubbish.

His throat was raw and scratchy, his head was throbbing, and his nose was tickling. Clu had clearly sunk its claws into him and it was only a matter of time before his lymph nodes swelled up and congestion and cough set in.  _ Damnit _ . Christmas could be a difficult time for Harry; he felt bad that he would have to cancel their plans. Further, he didn’t want to have to deal with Sherlock in this state - both because of his feelings for the man and because he suspected Sherlock would want to take cultures and marvel over him now that he was getting ill.

Speaking of Sherlock, where was he? A glance at the clock showed John that he had slept later than usual.

John cleared his throat as thoroughly and quietly as he could before leaving Sherlock’s room. He needn’t have worried, the flat was empty. John supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Sherlock had left as soon as his fever had broken and he was out of John’s purview, or that of an assigned Sherlock-sitter. It also presented him with an opportunity. If he acted quickly he might be able to get one of his colleagues from the surgery to call in a prescription for paracetamol with codeine. He could ask for a very small dose - it was an opiate, however mild, and he didn’t want it laying around for Sherlock to get a hold of - but if he took something with codeine and lay low the rest of the day, perhaps he could be well by Christmas? Avoid both misery and Sherlock by sleeping in his bedroom?

It would probably be quicker to just go to the surgery and get the prescription than to try to get through to one of the doctors at this rate. John shrugged into his coat and was putting on his shoes when he heard the familiar sound of Sherlock’s footsteps on the stairs. He collapsed backwards in mild frustration. How was he going to get out now?

Sherlock came into the flat with, of all things, a Tesco bag. John was gobsmacked.

“Did you go shopping?” asked John. “What is this, a Christmas miracle?”

Sherlock ignored the question in favor of asking his own, narrowing his eyes at John. “Where are you going?”

“I thought I might just…..run out for a bit. Last minute Christmas shopping.” John stood up.

Sherlock snorted. “Whatever you’re planning, it’s not Christmas shopping. You’re still in sweatpants. You’re ill.”

One way that John supposed he was like Sherlock was a reluctance to admit physical weakness. “I’m maybe a bit under the weather. Brisk walk outside wouldn’t hurt.”

“Don’t be stupid. Did you think there was any chance I wouldn’t know you were sick? I knew before you did, when you were sleeping. You snored twice as loud as usual last night, had to get water when you were up early in the morning due to a sore throat, and you had - and still have - a headache. You did your best to clear out your throat but you can’t stop yourself from sounding nasal. You probably overworked yourself at the surgery and taking care of me and now, well, you’re in for it, because whatever this is that Lestrade and I had, you’re the proud new host of that virus.”

John sat back down and crossed his arms over his chest, defeated and annoyed. “I knew you were ill when  _ you  _ were sleeping,” John said grudgingly.

“Yes, but I knew by then, too.” Sherlock carried the Tesco bag into the kitchen and set it on the table.

“Speaking of you being ill, you probably shouldn’t have been out and about. You’re not really recovered yourself, although you do sound better. What was so important that you had to go out and get it right away?”

Sherlock had a look to him that John hadn’t seen before...was it sheepish? Embarrassed? John looked in the bag. It contained a carton of orange juice, a fresh supply of tissues, and what looked to be ingredients for soup.

“What is all this?” John asked.

“You spent the last few days doctoring me,” said Sherlock, coming around the table close to where John stood. “I don’t have a medical degree but I thought I might be capable of returning the favor.”

And, like they did sometimes, they stood staring into each other’s eyes for an eternal moment. John thought about how much Sherlock meant to him, and how all he wanted to do was crawl back into the man’s bed, with the man, and sleep for another 12 hours. He thought about how he had made plans for Christmas with Harry but how he wished he could spend the day with Sherlock. He thought about how he had wanted to get Sherlock a Christmas gift he would like and now it was too late. And for some reason he would never be able to explain - maybe it was just lowered inhibitions because he was getting ill - John leaned up suddenly and kissed Sherlock.

Sherlock went rigid for the longest two seconds of John’s life, and then began returning John’s kiss with unmistakable enthusiasm. Moments later, John found himself pushed up against the kitchen table while Sherlock explored his mouth and tangled his hands in John’s hair. Since John was starting not to be able to breathe through his nose he had to pull away first. “Mmmph,” he said, against Sherlock’s mouth, “are you sure you want to be kissing me when I’m coming down with something?”

“I gave you the illness you’re coming down with,” said Sherlock, “I think we’re fine.” Sherlock gently guided John toward the living room, kissing him all the way there, and when they bumped into the sofa they tumbled onto it together. The making out went on for a long while, and John was well into an excited state when Sherlock hooked his hands in the waistband of John’s (unattractive, he now noted) sweatpants.

“Whoa,” John jumped slightly at the feel of the cool hands on his hip bones. “Stop, pause. What are we doing here? We just….we’re flatmates….and now we’re….I mean should we talk about this?”

“Research shows the vasoconstriction that accompanies orgasm can temporarily relieve cold symptoms,” Sherlock said.

“Alright, then.”

__________

Afterwards, they lay on the sofa, both panting slightly. “That was….brilliant,” said John.

“I’m used to you saying that about my detective work,” Sherlock said, grinning. “But I’ll take it about my shagging, too.”

John groaned softly, covering his face with his hands “My God, Sherlock. Are you sure this is what you want? We didn’t give ourselves much time to process...whatever this is.”

Sherlock looked at John, observing him for a few moments. A shiver rippled through John at that moment. “You know what I want? I want you to get into bed.

“Why? You’ve already had your way with me.” John chuckled.

“Ha ha,” Sherlock responded with sarcasm. “You’re starting to shiver. Fever’s starting up. Come on.”

Sherlock prodded John off the sofa and headed towards his bedroom.

“Your bedroom?” said John with mild surprise in his voice. 

“Yes, my bedroom. The bed you just got out of a few hours ago. Get in.”

John lay down and Sherlock could see him relaxing into the bed. “Should we talk about this?”

“What is there to talk about? You’re clearly attracted to me; I’m attracted to you. You've been with a man before, which was maybe the one thing I wasn't sure of. We’re relatively compatible as living companions - certainly no one else has ever enjoyed living with me. We know now that we’re compatible sexually. This...should work…..right?” Sherlock paused, his stomach churning as he realized how vulnerable the question made him.

John smiled, and it was like the sun coming out, warming Sherlock. “This should work. You've done this before, too?” John's voice lifted at the end, the barest hint of question.

“Obviously." Sherlock smiled and took on a mock-imperious tone, “Now, what can I do for you since you’re feeling poorly?”

“Get into this bed with me. You’re barely well yourself,” John said. Sherlock clambered in, as John rubbed his nose with tissue and shivered again. “Yuck. Guess I’m not going to be able to go out.”

“What do you need out there, anyway?” Sherlock asked, pulling the duvet up around both of them as John snuggled down, putting his head on the pillow and turning his back to Sherlock, trying to get himself comfortable.

“I haven’t got you a Christmas present. I should have done it earlier in the week.” John yawned. Sherlock gazed at his flatmate - boyfriend? - and waited, suspecting that if he was quiet the sick man would go to sleep. John's features relaxed into slumber, and Sherlock felt another wave of affection for the man.

Sherlock reached out tentatively and brushed the hair on John’s brow. “I think this will do,” he said softly, spooning around the smaller figure. Entering into a relationship with John was the only thing he could remember wanting for a long time. Christmas in bed, even with both of them feeling under the weather, sounded just about perfect.

And it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for anyone who read along. It was fun to get back into writing fictional work, even something light and fluffy!


End file.
